Weak
by The Copy Editor's Copy Editor
Summary: In the 69th Hunger Games, a boy too sick to live and too weak to die gets reaped. But when death is forced on him, will he fight back? Rated M because it's the Hunger Games, come on. Language, content, violence, etc. DISCONTINUED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, SORRY.
1. Day of the Dread

**A/N: Here's my new fic, WEAK. It's exploring a piece of canon that I've been curious about for a while, although I won't tell you immediately what it is ****. This is in the same universe as my other fic, THE THIRD QUARTER QUELL, which is still in progress. If you enjoy this fic, I hope you'll go check that one out, as I think it is rather good (but then I would, wouldn't I?).**

**Obligatory disclaimer: I do not now, nor will I ever own any part of THE HUNGER GAMES, which is the sole property of Suzanne Collins. Bless her heart.**

CHAPTER ONE – DAY OF THE DREAD

If I don't steady my fingers, I'm going to lose one. If I lose my fingers, I'll have nothing left. No way to earn money. No way to live.

Sometimes I think about it. How could you not, if you were me? When your life is nothing, and there's nothing on the horizon, who's to say death wouldn't be better?

But not a slow, starving death. If I go out voluntarily, I'm throwing myself right into the machinery. Cock up everything for days to come. Become a legend, someone they whisper about.

Well, there's the way I know I will go someday. The horrible, slow death of my parents. Why shouldn't I take myself out early? I'm living under a death sentence anyway. It will be better this way, or at least that's what I tell myself every day as I wake up. But I can't do it. I can't bring myself to do it. On top of everything else, I'm weak. A coward.

The factory bell clangs out, surprising me out of my morbid reverie. It's time to go. Time for the reaping. Technically, Reaping Day is supposed to be a holiday. We're not supposed to have to work, and we're supposed to be celebrating. "Supposed to" being the operative term. District 9 does neither. We get out three hours early, hours spent entirely initially in silence and dread, and then, once it's over, relief mixed with horror.

I trudge out of the factory, the tail end of a stream of people, all heading to the town square. In other districts, even the poorer districts like 11 and 12, people get dressed up for the reaping. Not here. We simply walk straight from the factory to the reaping, wearing exactly what we already have on: our stained, torn work clothes. The adults file off to the side, the children into their designated slots.

My fingers are still trembling. They never stop trembling. Sometimes I wonder if the Shakes in my fingers will spread to my whole body, if I will shake apart like a faulty grain bag some day. If I'll die like my mother, twitching in the street. But I don't really have to wonder, do I? Everyone knows the Shakes can't be cured. Not in District 9 anyway.

Around me, the other 14s whisper and talk amongst themselves. Never happily. Never loudly. But at least they have someone to talk to, to worry with and over. They have friends. I never have. Everyone around me avoids my eyes, looks instead at my shaking hands. Who wants to be friends with the walking corpse?

Ahead of me, I see some of the upperclass jackanapes have brought wine with them, are already drunk. I hope they get reaped and choke on their own liquor.

But they won't. No, it will only be poor factory workers like me who get reaped, just like every other year. Factory workers who have to take out tesserae every year, just to survive. What will I do when I turn 18? I'll no longer be at risk for the Games, but I won't be able to take out tesserae any more, either.

Maybe that's when I'll do it.

It's a comforting thought, one that warms me on this chilly gray day. I can always die.

In front of me, the usual macabre Reaping Day spectacle is unfolding. Our Mayor reads the Treaty and talks about the Dark Days. Then our escort, Mimi, a large, loud, brash woman climbs onto the stage. Other districts get silly but harmless escorts. Not District 9. Just one more reason why we're the unluckiest district in Panem. Mimi is famous for her mismatched, incredibly bright outfits. Even the announcers on the Reaping Day broadcast mock her. Today she's got white blonde curly hair that stands at least a foot around her head in all directions, with a lime green, too tight leotard, pink and black striped tights, electric blue heels, and deep red lips. She's the brightest thing to ever happen in District 9. She's grotesque.

"Helloooooooooo, District 9!" she trumpets. "Who's ready for the reapinggggggggggg?!" Does she expect applause? She shouldn't, not after all these years. But she never gives up.

"Allllllllll righty then, folks, let's get right down to it! Skip all the boring small talk, amiright?" she looks around hopefully, but no one moves. Her smile still plastered onto her face, she fishes around in the girls' bowl for a name, finally pulling one out. "Aviva Miller, come on dowwwwwn!"

There's a disturbance in the 16s section and a girl emerges, walking slowly toward the stage. Her back is painfully upright and she keeps her head high, looking at no one. Her hair, the color of black rye, hangs straight all the way to the middle of her back, and it swings gently as she walks.

She stands on the stage, still not making eye contact as Mimi roots around in the boys' bowl for another name.

Please don't be me. I may die, I may kill myself, but I don't want to go into that arena. I don't want all of Panem to see my weakness.

Mimi triumphantly pulls out a slip of paper. She calls out a name. It takes a moment for everything to sink in.

She's called out the name Dagan Beresford.

She's called out my name.

My death sentence just got shorter.


	2. Runaway Train Never Going Back

**A/N: Enjoy, and please review. No one ever reviews. **

CHAPTER TWO – RUNAWAY TRAIN NEVER GOING BACK

The waiting room was a joke. No one came to visit me. I watched people file in and out of Aviva's room, but mine remained stubbornly empty. Even the Peacekeepers, normally stone faced and implacable, seemed surprised by how little anyone cares that I will die.

Still, things are better now that I am on the train, in opulent surroundings with a huge meal spread before me. My fork clatters against the plate as I eat, adding a staccato rhythm to the rumbling of the train. Mimi is even less bearable up close and in person than she was on the stage, but our mentors, a middle-aged woman and a feeble older man, District 9's only Victors, seem nice enough.

"Can't you stop that abominable noise?" Mimi snarls, her good cheer gone.

"No," I say, raising my chin. "I can't. I have the Shakes." I wait for the blanch that usually accompanies my statement. The averted eyes, murmured apologies. I can see that Aviva looks stunned, and both my mentors apologetic, but Mimi's face doesn't change.

"So?"

"So? So?" I am immeasurably angry. "So—I'm going to die! I'm going to die slowly! I'm going to die even if by some miracle I make it out of the arena!"

Mimi snorts. "Of the Shakes? Dear boy, you can get that fixed like _that_." She snaps her fingers. "We're not in the Dark Days anymore, you know. They have a cure now!" She laughs merrily. I hate her more every day.

"Not in District 9, they don't." I turn away from Mimi in disgust and the silence grows palpable around us. Finally Mimi breaks it by laughing triumphantly.

"Don't you see, dear boy? Don't you see? This is perfect!"

How is it perfect? Why won't she shut up? Why can't I spend my last few days of life peacefully? I have already formed my plan—I will simply stand still in the Bloodbath and wait for someone to kill me. In the meantime, I will eat all of the delicious food that the Capitol has to offer.

Still, Mimi continues to exclaim. "You see it, don't you? If you win, _they'll fix you_!"

They'll…fix me.

Of course. Why didn't I see it before? A Victor is set up for life. And they'll repair any damages incurred in the arena. Or out of the arena.

If there really is a cure for the Shakes—and I don't know if I entirely believe Mimi about that. If there's a cure, why don't we know about it in District 9, where 1 out 5 citizens will die of the disease?—then, as a Victor, I will receive the cure.

For the first time since my hands started shaking, for the first time in two years, I have hope.

Hope, it turns out, can burn in your chest like a fire. Hope can give you life. But the thing is, it hurts. Because for the first time it feels like I might actually lose something in the Hunger Games. I have more reason to live, but no better chances. I'm still from District 9, still sick, still shaking, still weak.

The odds are certainly not in my favor.


	3. Don't Fear the Reaper

**A/N: Here's the reaping recap! Next stop: the Capitol! In a few chapters, we'll be in the arena! (Sorry for the delay, I was pretending I was going to be able to complete NaNoWriMo but that failed pretty completely so… back to fanfic I guess.) **

CHAPTER THREE – DON'T FEAR THE REAPER

I'm woken from my nap (in the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in) by a loud banging on my compartment door. I know without looking that Mimi's on the other side of the door—I can hear her hollering at me.

"Dagan! Dagannnnn! You have to come out here, darling, it's time for the reaping recap!"

Reluctantly, I leave my cozy bed and head out the door. It's important for me to see what I'm up against, see who my opponents are. There are two couches in the main compartment, and I choose the empty one. Both mentors, Mimi, and Aviva crowd onto the other one. Fine.

Mimi turns on the TV just in time for District 1, which is the same as always: a melee to get to the stage. This year's tributes are both tall and blonde wearing proud sneers and expensive clothing.

District 2 yields two more fearsome tributes: a slim, dark, sly girl with a charcoal braid that she uses as a weapon on her way to the stage, and a hulking, hairy, beast of a boy named, of all things, Fenris. He snarls at the camera and at the girl, Delilah.

District 3's tributes are both small and sad. The girl, Siri, is only 13, while the boy, Cable, is a walking bag of bones. He looks as though he hasn't eaten a full meal in years.

District 4, the last of the Career districts, delivers two more watery tributes: Nereida, fit and tanned, and Caspian, who is, according to the announcers, in his last year of eligibility, his first on the sea, and already a Captain. A formidable tribute, to be sure.

The next few districts fly by without much to distinguish them. Although the girl from 6 is horrendously ugly, and the girl from 7 preternaturally beautiful, all the male tributes and the girl from 5 are unremarkable.

District 8's male tribute, Lowell, has a certain cheeky charm to him. When his district partner tries to shake his hand, at the last moment he moves it out of the way and instead smoothes down his hair. He turns directly to the camera and winks. Then, as he is escorted off the stage—and here I know something is up, because they rarely broadcast this part, usually electing to skip to the next district—he appears to trip and go tumbling down the stairs—only to leap up and take a bow, grinning broadly.

Watching his antics, Aviva sighs impatiently, and Mimi tuts and mutters something about "not taking the Games seriously," but I think that this is someone I'd want to ally with. If only for entertainment value.

Next I have to sit through the excruciating recap of my own reaping. Aviva comes off well, seeming haughty and untouchable. She could be a District 1 Career. I can already hear the Capitol boys falling in love with her, the Capitol girls yearning to be her. I don't fare anywhere near as well. I am small, weak. I hesitate too long after Mimi calls my name, and I am slow making my way through the crowds. The camera thoughtfully zooms in on my shaking hands, revealing my affliction to all and sundry. The commentators dismiss me without a second thought. I am not a contender.

I see one more shot of Aviva and I standing on the platform before the camera cuts to District 10. District 10 has a large boy, Ralph, who looks like he could be a threat but for the stupid look in his eye which makes him resemble the cows he herds, and a 12-year-old, Linnea.

District 11 and 12 both reap tributes on the younger side of the scale, Avalon and Linden from 11 and Aphra and Collier from 12. All are scrawny, underfed kids, and none are memorable, and you can tell the announcers think so too, rushing through their reapings to get to the betting odds.

Mimi turns off the TV and we sit in silence, each thinking our own thoughts. I have a feeling that Aviva and I are thinking the same thing: this is my competition. For me to live, they must die. Maybe she is calculating her chances, thinking who she can take out.

I am wondering who will be the one to deal the blow that ends my life.

In just a few days, I suppose I will find out.


End file.
